


Of Pianos and Scotch

by IzzyLightwood



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: AU, M/M, Oneshot, tumblr post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7490211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IzzyLightwood/pseuds/IzzyLightwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the reason he kept coming back. Just to hear him play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Pianos and Scotch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the X-Men franchise except what is my own writing. Everything else goes to the rightful owners. This story idea comes from this amazing tumblr post, at this address: http://cee72.tumblr.com/post/147367062829/amarriageoftrueminds-straggling-wanderer. I do not take credit for the idea. You can watch Charles’ performance here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1Tjjo4GvFg&list=LLfnbNEE_V1Jh3eU5AhKDeFg&index=1 and it is from the movie Penelope, which I also don’t own. The song is Hoppipola by Sigur Rós and I do not own it, though it is very beautiful, in my humble opinion.

     It had all been a humorous accident, really.  Charles had wandered into the bar late one night, having heard of it from a friend. It was a relatively new establishment, but already the mode among the up-and-up. Too high-class to be called a bar, honestly; maybe more of a cocktail lounge, or upscale nightclub, accented with deep maroon-patterned walls and carpeting. Meanwhile, Charles wasn’t anything special, just a kid trying to get through university. He was plenty smart, sure, with plenty of talents on the side. It was one of these which led his gaze to the grand piano standing on the stage, at the farthest side of the bar.

     From age four, Charles had been trained in classical arts. The piano was a favorite skill in his repertoire. No one was seated on its bench, however, and he wondered why that was. A place like this should have entertainment round the clock. A split-second decision was made in which he adjusted the lapels of his sport coat and swatted the hair from his eyes. If he were really going to do this, he would have to look somewhat presentable.

     Without asking permission, Charles walked in silence to the stage. He could feel the eyes of the sparse patrons (it was a Thursday night, after all) on him as he did this, but he paid them no mind. He just hoped security wouldn’t be hounding him out the door before he’d even had the chance to show them what he wanted to do.

     It was a song close to his heart, a favorite; only the piano piece of Hoppipola. He sat down, nearly afraid to breathe for fear of being thrown out. But it was a little late for that, and all quite innocent; besides, surely these people were bored stiff. Charles rested his fingers atop the keys, and began.

     He could hear the rest of the song in his mind, layering and transforming with each note. To him, it was a whirlwind of color. That is how he would describe playing.

* * *

      No sooner had the boy gone onto the stage than had the assorted lounge habitués turned in their seats to see what was going on. A spotlight dropped on him, but he did not react in the slightest. He was completely engrossed in his piece. Erik could swear he recognized the song.

     And he wasn’t exceptionally talented. The boy’s fingers weren’t quite long enough to reach every single note that another musician could be expected to, he didn’t look at all the way a professional should either. But it was the way he played, the life and enthusiasm that was apparent on his face when his eyes lit up, his fingers dancing along the keys. It was this which made Erik rethink his first impression, that he was nothing to be minded.

     There was a rhythm to the way the boy moved that translated into the music flowing from the piano, almost playful, cheeky. The smile on his lips whenever he hit just the right notes or played the perfect chord, proud but humble.

     He wasn’t Bach, this young man… but there was something about him.

* * *

      Charles was called to meet with the owner of the bar later that same night. He had very much enjoyed his playing, and invited Charles to work there full-time. He’d receive tips, if the customers were so kind, and a generous salary for his skills. Charles knew that this offer could stabilize him financially and away from his parents’ wealth, if he played his cards right; he of course jumped on it, just about bouncing on his toes from excitement. A job in which he got to play the piano? And make money from it? Sold.

     A schedule was worked out, and it was decided that he would play every other weekday and weekend. He would begin this Saturday. Wouldn’t his mother be proud?

* * *

      A pesky work dinner interfered with Erik’s plans to again visit the lounge. It was one of his favorite haunts, but he knew that it would be open Saturday, as always. When he arrived that night, he ordered a Scotch in a short glass and stood at the bar to wait for it. He had a usual table and went to it once he had his drink. In only a few minutes the same boy from the other night was seated at the piano.

Tonight, he seemed to be working ever harder to impress. His hair had been fixed, along with his wardrobe, to appear more well-groomed, but his face while playing hadn’t changed to stoicism. He still showed everything he was feeling, and Erik had to keep himself from leaning forward in his chair. He was just so alluring. And Erik couldn’t decipher why.

     But it was why he kept coming back. Not because he had been to the lounge so many times before and liked it immensely over all the rest. No. Now, Erik kept going back because of the pianist. Just to hear him play. Just to _see_ him play, really. The sight was somehow more beautiful than the music itself.

* * *

      A few performances into his new gig and Charles realized that there was one man in the audience who never failed to show up each night. He was always at the same table, with the same glass of some liquor, watching Charles play. He wasn’t sure why, but he realized that he thought about the man more than should be normal. Before stepping onto the stage he would glance over just to see if he was there, which he of course would be. Sometimes Erik came late and Charles had to train himself not to glance up at the arrival.

     Except for the time he _did_ look. His eyes betrayed him. He’d hardly looked at him before, but knew without a doubt that this man could never be interested in him. He was a business type, clearly accomplished; what fascination could he possibly have in a university student such as Charles?

     But he certainly seemed intrigued. And Charles found that he looked forward to seeing him there, always with the hint of a smile on his lips.

* * *

      A month had passed, and Erik was frustrated with the unknown. It would have been simple to ask the owner or bar-keeps for the pianist’s name, but that would have been far too easy, apparently. It was on his break that Erik stood from his chair, tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, and walked for the bar at which he stood sipping a glass of water.

     Nearing him, Erik slowed down. He really was something to see. Erik was dismayed to find that he was a little _nervous_. How ridiculous.

* * *

      Why was he coming over? Charles forced his eyes to remain on the bar counter. Ordering a drink, surely. Nothing more.

* * *

      “You’ve been here nearly a month now and I’ve still no idea what your name is,” Erik said, clearing his tight throat as quietly as possible.

     The young man turned to him, then, evidently just realizing that Erik really meant to speak to him and not another. His sea-blue eyes were striking beneath his dark hair. Shit but he was gorgeous.

     “I’m just the pianist,” he said, as though that were an answer.

* * *

      No way. He wasn’t _real_. He was like a model in a catalogue–some suit-selling, really expensive catalogue for rich-ass men. Charles’ family had money, but Charles had never benefited much from it, having always been modest. He didn’t know how to react to this man before him, so cool and self-possessed.

     “Does that mean you haven’t got a name?” he asked Charles.

     Charles’ eyes fell to the floor for a brief second in which he wanted to smack himself. “No, I–it’s Charles. My name is Charles Xavier.”

* * *

     A delicious name for a delicious man. Not at all a surprise.

     “Erik Lehnsherr.” Erik leaned against the bar, lifting a hand. The bartender, very familiar with Erik, arrived a short moment later with another Scotch. “I suppose you don’t have the owner’s say-so to order a drink on the job?”

     “Definitely not,” Charles said, with an unsure laugh.

* * *

      He was mucking this up quite badly. He had to get out of there and just do what he did best, at least according to these people: play the piano.

     “And it’s alright; I should be getting back up there anyhow,” Charles told Erik. He’d never been too good with words when it came to such attractive individuals, a fact he had grown used to over the years. He just had to remove himself from this scenario, as soon as possible. “Enjoy your night.”

     “I will,” Erik said. He reached a hand into his jacket and revealed a wallet, from which he pulled out pounds equivalent to twenty in American. Charles blanched. He had never received such a generous tip in all his time working at the lounge.

* * *

   Erik didn’t try to hide his smile at Charles’ reaction. It was utterly adorable, the way his mouth opened and closed in fluster.

     “I can’t accept so much,” he said.

     “Your playing is highly appreciated; you may as well be rewarded for it. Keep up the good work.” Erik held up the money relentlessly, and Charles had to take it.

     “Well then, thank you. Erik. But I really should get back…”

     “Of course, of course; and I have to be getting on home,” Erik said. “I suppose we’ll both be back Saturday.”

* * *

      “Saturday, then,” Charles agreed. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He nodded once and walked off to the stage, certain that Erik was watching him go. Holy shit. This job just got a hell of a lot more interesting.


End file.
